


Sparks From Mahal's Forge

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Flame of Durin [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, GFY
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of side-stories to the Flame of Durin series, posted as they're cleaned up, or the chapters that are relevant to them are posted in the longer stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Síndri and Fíli in the healers' tent after the battle

**Author's Note:**

> This particular scene goes with the first chapter of Burning Bright, [To Weather the Storm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957465/chapters/1874700), and is from the point of view of Síndri, one of the mercenaries that arrived with Ráva during the battle. Síndri is the youngest of those who came, and one of the youngest of the company to have more than one campaign season under her belt. She isn't much older than Fíli.

Síndri's exhausted, but stopping now is not truly an option. _Sleep_ isn't an option, not if she wants to avoid weeks of nightmares, with a new face to add to the others that parade through them. The blond dwarrow who had been holding the darker dwarrow's leg together when she found them - Akhi and Hjördis were already gone, wounds gaping and blood no longer flowing - is refusing to leave the tent the healers have taken over, though his own wounds are minor in comparison, and the room is needed for those more injured.

"Come here." Síndri beckons him over to where she's working, turning the dried herbs the healer needs into powder, while he does the more delicate work of stitching the leg shut. "There's another mortar and pestle there. You keep grinding until all the leaves are powder."

She makes sure he knows which of the herbs to grind, and they sit there together, working at powdering the herbs that will help ward off infection while the wound - a deep slice, that would have ended the young dwarrow if the other had not held the wound shut for however long he had. If Akhi and Hjördis hadn't been there, Síndri is almost afraid both of the young dwarrows would have been lost. It's that idea that would haunt her if she slept now, and she's been on enough campaigns to have the images of all manner of deaths seared into her memory.

"I am Síndri, at your service." She had not had time when she'd found them on the field, helping the blond dwarrow to fashion a tourniquet to keep the leg from bleeding the dark-haired dwarrow's life out, then carrying the barely-conscious dwarrow off the field. Even after, when she'd had to send someone to find and bring at least a bedroll, so they could set their burden down safely until a tent was set up for the healers, there hadn't been a real chance.

The blond is quiet a moment, focused on the task he's been set to. "Fíli, at yours." Fíli looks over at the dwarrow - blissfully unconscious, as he has been since soon after they'd taken him off the field - with worry clear on his face. "He's my brother. Kíli."

Fíli and Kíli. Síndri smiles a little, fixing the names in her mind. At least if she has nightmares, they won't involve not knowing those who died under her hands.


	2. Corpses and Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bjarkha is collecting arrowheads. Tauriel is avoiding doing what she's been told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during [To Weather the Storm](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957465/chapters/1874700), the day after the Battle of Five Armies.

Pulling another arrow free of an orc corpse, Bjarkha checks the head before breaking it off the ruined shaft, dropping the steel into the bag she carries. The more that can be found before the bodies are burnt, the fewer that will have to be recast. There are some which will be recast anyway, because they are orc-made, and not worth keeping, barbed and vicious things as they are. Made to poison and pain, rather than to strike heart direct or bleed a target out with speed, and cause a death as cruel as the orcs themselves.

Shaking her head, Bjarkha moves on to the next corpse, seeking more arrows. It will be a good thing to have to keep her hands busy in the coming winter, making shafts, hafting and fletching them. If there's wood and steel enough to create the shafts, and sinew or hemp enough to bind heads and fletching.

She doesn't mark the passage of time until she feels a hand on her elbow, light and brief, the person who'd caught her attention waiting for her to turn. She blinks, raising an eyebrow at the elf who is watching her. One of the archers she'd ended up fighting nearest toward the middle of the battle, she thinks, though with the chaos it had been, she can't be certain.

"None of the healers recalls you having been to their tents, Mistress." There's a gentle rebuke in the tone, a scolding for not seeing to herself, but nothing overt.

"Hrafn and I looked to each other's hurts by the fire last night. Nothing that needs a healer's touch, just time and attention." There were others who'd come out truly wounded, or not come out of the battle at all, and no mercenary expects any outside their company to see to their wounded. "I'd have spoken to Síndri if there were."

The elf frowns a little, and doesn't go anywhere, though at least the elf doesn't seem inclined to argue with her.

"There are still arrows to find, if you've not anywhere else to be." Bjarkha smiles briefly, though she's not sure if inviting the elf to help her in her self-appointed task is a good idea. It will soothe any worry the elf has, she hopes, and that is enough to at least make it not a _bad_ idea.

"I was told to find a place to rest." There's a ghost of a smile on the elf's face a moment. "I found I could not while I wondered about the dwarf who was so kind as to keep Gûrgyl from falling to an orc's blade."

She doesn't remember actively saving an elf, but Bjarkha doesn't argue the point, shrugging as she rolls a body over to search for broken arrow shafts. "I hope Gûrgyl will be well."

"He should be." There's a moment of silence before the elf reaches past Bjarkha to grip a short shaft, pulling it and the head free with a swift tug. "If you will allow, finding arrows goes faster with two."

Bjarkha nods. "It does." Pausing, she holds out the bag for the elf to drop the head into once the remaining shaft is stripped. "I am called Bjarkha."

The elf nods their head, crouching down to help Bjarkha searching the corpse beneath the one already rolled aside. "I am Tauriel."

"Well-met." It is all that needs said, and the rest of the afternoon passes in quiet, the only sounds the squelch of mud and the dull sounds of flesh as they move corpses in searching them.


	3. Síndri and Tílithluin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Síndri needs more information to complete the task Ráva has asked her to do, and she turns to Tílithluin for what she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene goes with chapter three of Burning Bright, [Flame and Stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957465/chapters/2370092). It occurs about the same time the conversation between Bilbo and Ráva, and is a prelude to the conversation between Síndri and Sûlclaur.

"Tílithluin?" Síndri knocks on the door of Tílithluin's rooms, still turning over Ráva's earlier words. She knows he's not going to like the idea of involving Tílithluin in this, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him - and he's not likely to notice, since she's told him to leave her be for the next day and a half to work out how she's going to get Sûlclaur to condemn himself.

It's all politics in the end, but right now, Síndri wants - needs - more information than Ráva can give her, between his lack of familiarity with the West and how easily he misses cues that everyone around him picks up on.

"Yes?" Tílithluin opens the door enough to see and be seen, if not to make it a simple matter to go inside. Síndri is glad once more for the cleverly baffled conduits that are made to allow ease of communication by someone by the door, while not disturbing the privacy of individual rooms and homes.

"Yes and no." Síndri tries to smile a moment, before giving it up as a bad job, and gesturing at the door, and the room beyond Tílithluin. "May I come in?" I'd rather not talk about it standing here in the hallway."

In part because she's at a loss for how to even frame the question of what she needs to know, save quite bluntly, and in part because she wants to pull her hair in frustration with Ráva's lack of observation skill - and, no doubt, his subsequent misunderstanding of how Sûlclaur meant his words. She can understand why Ráva thought them an insult, but she's not sure if they really had been meant as such - which is the third part of why she's come to Tílithluin for help.

Tílithluin immediately opens the door wide, and gestures Síndri in and over to the mismatched pair of chairs in front of the hearth. "Please, be comfortable."

Síndri settles into the shorter chair with a small sigh, watching her friend a long moment as Tílithluin settles in with her mending. It might have been a good idea to bring her own hand-work, save she doesn't think she'd be able to focus on it at the moment - and cutting herself wouldn't make for a good impression when she tries to dig out whatever needs digging out of Sûlclaur.

Instead, she looks over Tílithluin's chair, one of the few still-intact and useable pieces from one of the more accessible workshops, and as much a work of art as anything that would have been made by the person who'd once sat in it. It's a good chair for Tílithluin, and one Síndri is glad had been found even if she hadn't been the one to find it.

Taking a deep breath when Tílithluin asks how she can help, Síndri meets her gaze squarely. "Ráva had an unsettling encounter last night with Sûlclaur, and he's asked my assistance in tangling Sûlclaur up in his own words such that Prince Legolas has no choice but to send him home. In large part, I think, because Ráva sees what Sûlclaur said as deeply insulting of you and of Thorin, and unworthy of anyone who is any position of even remote importance."

She closes her eyes a moment, before relaying what Ráva had told her of the conversation - hopefully all of it, because otherwise, she'll thump Ráva. Not that he would deliberately leave out any information that he actually noticed, but sometimes he doesn't even notice something if he considers it unimportant.

Tílithluin's attention remains focused on Síndri through the recitation, and Síndri can see in her expression that much of this is nothing new - that she's heard this, or at least Sûlclaur in whatever mode he was in when he spoke to Ráva, often enough to hear it in her head. That is enough for Síndri to feel rather like thumping Sûlclaur on Tílithluin's behalf, though she'd want to know just what precisely he needs that thumping for before she would do so.

The sigh as Tílithluin looks down at her mending only reinforces the sense that this is not the first time Tílithluin has fielded such complaints, and is accustomed to them. As Síndri has become used to the disapproval from her family over her profession and her lack of a partner and children, though this runs deeper - must run deeper, as it touches not only on Tílithluin herself, but her family.

Waiting patiently, Síndri thinks again she perhaps should have brought something to fidget with, as she's fingering the steel rings of her chain mail despite the fact Tílithluin hasn't been silent too terribly long. Not for thinking over what Síndri has told her, even if she's heard much of the sort before.

"Lord Sûlclaur did not actually intend insult with what he was saying, though his usual speech seems to have been sent down a side-path." Tílithluin's words reinforce Síndri's thought that Ráva had misread the intent, though it doesn't make them any more pleasant to swallow. "My Noldorian grandmother is usually a prelude to his much greater unhappiness with my Silvan grandfather."

Síndri smiles wryly, thinking of the innumerable complaints about one or another dwarrow's heritage from her family. "It sounds a great deal, on the surface, like my mother's complaints about any number of those she deems lesser dwarrow."

She tries to relax against the chair, looking down at where she'd been fiddling with her chain mail while waiting for Tílithluin to speak a moment ago. "Why does he care so greatly that you be kept from these negotiations, though? If Thorin wants you to be part of the process of coming to contract, why not try to give you a chance to do so?"

That Sûlclaur might feel threatened by Tílithluin, politically, she might see, but at the same time, it doesn't quite make sense. It's to Sûlclaur's advantage, as far as Síndri can tell, to have someone else who would want the best for Mirkwood, and especially if that someone is liked enough by Thorin to be welcomed by him. It would give Sûlclaur access to someone who had the ability to make suggestions that Sûlclaur clearly cannot, not if he wishes to be taken seriously here.

"And why does he make such a fuss over who your grandparents are? It might make sense, I suppose, if they were inclined to dark deeds, but I can't imagine that they were, not if you're at all fond of them, at least."

"Sûlclaur thinks I need to be 'protected' from 'unsuitable influences and activities', 'for my own good'." It's clear that Tílithluin has heard that too often from the elf in question, quoting him from memory, and with such exasperation.

That, or others have repeated the same words, and Síndri has a suspicion that's the case - after all, it isn't just her mother who makes the complaints about various dwarrows, just that Síndri had heard her most often. She wonders if there are relatives of Tílithluin's that have done so, to carve the words so deeply in Tílithluin's memory.

"And in part it has to do with the history of the Noldor, the Sons of Fëanor and the oath they swore at the loss of the Silmarils. Many dark deeds did result."

Síndri tilted her head slightly, giving Tílithluin a curious look. "I've heard a few tales of Fëanor and his sons, but not many, and I'm not sure how much of it is the truth of the deeds, and how much of it is embellishment. Most of them were told as warnings, to be careful around Outsiders because they couldn't be trusted." She snorts, shrugging. She'd never taken well to those lessons, anyway - there were perfectly trustworthy people who weren't dwarrows, and there were those who were dwarrows who she wouldn't trust with much of anything.

"Does Sûlclaur think dwarrows are unsuitable influences, then?" If that's the case, Síndri quite likes being thought of as such, if it means Tílithluin has a friend - and she very much likes to think of Tílithluin as a friend.

Tílithluin let out a short, wry sound that was as much exasperation as amusement. “My lord Sûlclaur does indeed think Dwarrows, and Dwarrow history, and Dwarrow culture, not to mention songs, spices, politics, artifacts, engineering and road-works to be unsuitable influences. Of course, he thinks the same of Men, and Avari, and Istari. He would like to think it of all Elves not Sindarin, too, but he has too much reverence for Lord Elrond and his sons to quite go that far.”

Rolling her eyes, Síndri relaxes a little into the chair. "I'd ask why he even bothered to come out of the forest if he thinks so poorly of everyone else, but I suspect the answer will make me want to thump him." Which is not really the frame of mind she should have if she's going to go into a conversation with him that may well annoy her as much as dealing with her own family. "I'm glad to be an unsuitable influence, though, with that sort of attitude from him. Rather like being an irresponsible child with no respect for her family, I'd like to think."

That had been her mother's favorite phrase until Síndri had payed a woman with hair the same color as her own to let her braid it with the appropriate plait, and hack it off to send home. Her mother hasn't spoken to her since, which has made for a much more pleasant life.

Síndri is somewhat relieved, if not surprised, when Tílithluin doesn't press her on her family. It wouldn't be good to side-track from the subject now, but perhaps she might share some stories of her mother later - much later, and in the baths, where she can wash away the grimy feeling talking about her family always seems to bring with it.

"Lord Elrond is one of the few exceptions to Sûlclaur's true sticking-point. He truly believes not only that Men and Dwarrow - and Halfling, did he ever consider them a People - are poor exemplars for Eldar, as well as each other - though 'of course all may learn to their advantage by following the precepts and examples of the Firstborn.'"

Tílithluin's expression tightens with the last words, and the tone is such that Síndri can almost hear the worst of her mother's - no doubt she and Sûlclaur would get along well. It's neither a pleasant nor welcome thought, and Síndri shoves it away with a brief grimace, focusing closer on Tílithluin's words to hopefully avoid too many thoughts of her mother.

"As if we were a pattern-card, no matter another People's situation and circumstances. Which, no." Tílithluin's firm tone makes Síndri smile in agreement, and lean forward slightly.

"Sûlclaur - and some few others, not a large number, but with a certain amount of influence at Thranduil's court - believes that the various Peoples should not 'mix'. That close friendships, and worse, intimate relationships are not merely unadvised or inappropriate, but outright wrong."

Síndri frowns, one hand closing into a loose fist. That sort of attitude is one she hates, and had left Steelwind to get away from - and that it's elsewhere, while not really a surprise, is annoying.

"This even applies to different groups of Eldar, particularly that those who followed the call of the Valar and those who did not. Sûlclaur is far more upset with the fact that my grandmother loved and married a Silvan-avari than that she is Noldor. It is the combination that distresses him. I cannot say I understand why, but there is no doubt that he does."

"If he were a dwarrow, I'd be delighted to forgo political maneuvering in favor of a good fist to the jaw." Síndri reaches up to tug on the end of one of her braids, a habit when she's upset and doesn't have anything else to do with her hands. She should have brought something to fidget with, maybe the leather parts of her armor which need checked for weak spots. "As it is, I'm glad I told Ráva that I would need all of tomorrow to prepare for doing as he's asked - it wouldn't do to try tomorrow morning, and find myself forgetting this is political, not personal."

The sympathy on Tílithluin's face makes Síndri smile wryly, and draw a deep breath. Even the most physically demonstrative non-dwarrows she's met never seem to really appreciate the appeal of a good brawl for working out troubles and stress - or anything that comes after, when everyone's too tired to do more than slip into a hot pool to soak away their aches.

"I fear that would do nothing to change his mind," Tílithluin says, with a faint smile on her face that suggests she's imagining Síndri doing just as she's said. "If anything, it would only fix his opinion more firmly."

A problem that Síndri wouldn't face with a dwarrow, even one of her politically-minded kin from Steelwind.

Sighing, she tugs at her braid again. "Which means playing politics on a level I'd hoped to have gotten away from when I left home."

Tílithluin offers her the materials for cord-making, a task Síndri hasn't done in a long while - and the last time she had, she'd been working with reels of fine wire, not thread.

"Would you like something for your hands to do? I know I've only ever seen you truly empty-handed actually in the baths." She smiles, and it's the same sort of conspiratorial and almost nervous smile that Síndri's shared with friends as a dwarfling when they were planning mischief. "I don't like not having something to do either. My aunt despairs of my ever learning to sit properly still, but my tutors approved, and would show me their favorite hand-crafts and patterns. This is just a four-strand sinnet. There is a sad lack of serviceable string in this Mountain."

"Yes, please." Síndri is glad to have something to do, though she'd prefer her armor or her stone-carving. This is probably better, though, at the moment, and she gladly accepts the thread, though she contemplates it a moment before working at the four-strand braid. She doesn't have the attention to spare right now for anything more complex. "I would have my own, save it wouldn't do to show up with bandages on my hands because my attention strayed at the wrong moment. And stone-carving is unforgiving of mistakes in attention."

"Oh, I wouldn't bring out the embroidery for serious conversation either - I'd have to unpick as much as I laid down!" Those words are a reassurance of sorts that Tílithluin understands what Síndri is saying, and what is not said. Síndri watches as Tílithluin sets to the mending she's had to keep her fingers busy, letting herself settle into the rhythm of the braid herself.

"You were saying about playing politics, using of skill you have but would rather not employ. How can I help? Is there more you would know, questions I may answer?"

There's a sense of uncertainty about Tílithluin, as if she's not certain what she could do to help Síndri in her task - which is fair enough, as Síndri isn't quite certain just what it will take to accomplish it. She does have a thought on part of it, and she's both looking forward to the full formality of her armor and her braids threaded through with the chains of feathers that are the mark of the higher families of Steelwind, and dreading it. It is an impressive sight, but it reminds her of all the things she hates about home.

"Would you come to help braid my hair in the morning before I do this? It will take more than myself to finish it with any speed - and I don't dare leave it overnight, with the adornments that will need to go into it." Síndri looks up to meet Tílithluin's gaze steadily. It is only family that a dwarrow can trust with the braids, especially ones as those she's planning. And she only has two people here she would actually ask to do such a thing.

"Of course I will." There is understanding in Tílithluin's expression, knowledge that she will have acquired over time that this is something important. Perhaps might have noticed it among others - surely she will have had to seen it among dwarrows before the loss of Erebor. "I thank you for your trust in me."

It's more than trust, but she's certain Tílithluin knows that, but it's not something that needs spoken aloud between them, any more than it would need to be spoken between two dwarrows.

"And I have mastered much more complicated patterns than four-strand sinnets."

Síndri returns Tílithluin's smile with a grin of her own at the quip, nodding her head in acknowledgement. "I expect you have."

She's quiet for a while, trying to put together a plan to deal with Sûlclaur. "Is there anything in particular that will fit into his ideals that you think I could pull off?"

There's confusion on Tílithluin's face, and Síndri is about to try to explain further her need when Tílithluin speaks.

"What kind of thing do you mean? He will not get the nuance of your braids, but he has been here long enough to understand that they do have meaning, and will lay more weight on complicated, elaborate arrangements than simple. He is quite baffled by Thorin's lack of intricacy, now that the Mountain is regained."

Síndri finds Thorin's simplicity a relief, recalling the elaboration and adornments of Prince Einarr, and he hasn't nearly the lineage that Thorin has. It's nice to see that someone who has power not screaming it to all who have eyes, but letting it speak for itself.

"He does not at all understand that Dwarrows, and Durin's Line in particular, do understand restraint, and the power of simplicity. Nor is the idea that mortals grieve within his compass." There is an underlying bitterness that Síndri blinks at, and while she wonders at it, she's also not surprised at.

"I do not pretend to understand it myself, but I know very well that it is _real_." When Tílithluin stops abruptly, biting her lip, then continues, "Forgive me if I offend; I do not mean to," Síndri reaches out to lay a hand on Tílithluin's arm.

"You give no offense, because you are not trying to do so." And for Síndri, that is almost more important than the words themselves. "Why would he not understand why mortals grieve, though? All people who are not fallen grieve for those they have lost, for what they have lost. Some perhaps more than others, but all grieve."

"Aiee, I miss-speak. There are not the precise words in Westron for what I mean." Tílithluin looks down at the fabric in her lap, silent for a long moment as she gathers thoughts - Síndri can all but see her turning over words and discarding them as not precise enough to convey what she's trying to say.

"It is not that he thinks mortals do not feel grief, do not mourn loss of those and that they love, but he would call that ... sorrow, or gloom, perhaps mourning. _Dim, dimhaudh_ \- grave-gloom - not _naer_ , not _naeranann lefn erebeth_ , that is, the long grief of one left behind, lonely and alone. Our memories do not fade with the years, remembered images do not dim."

That sort of memory, Síndri cannot envy, though she would argue that those memories which cause the greatest griefs among any of the speaking peoples do not fade even with years, though mortal memories are lost with the deaths of those who hold them.

"I could re-make this shirt exactly as it was when I first wore it, did I wish, recreate the colors and designs precisely. I can see it still in my mind's eye. I will be with my grandmother again, do I go into the West, however long years from now that may be; when you go to the halls of your Fathers to await the remaking of the world, (as I understand the tale), I will have only memory. The spirits of Men go whither we know not, but not to Aman, not to the Halls of Mandos. Sundered indeed."

There's another silence, but Síndri doesn't fill it, watching instead the expression on Tílithluin's face, seeing her momentary distance vanish as she bites her lip. "For mortals, there is an end to grief, for Eldar there is not, as we understand it. Sûlclaur cannot imagine that mortals can and do feel 'long-grief'. I am certain that he is wrong."

Síndri is quiet a moment, thinking over what Tílithluin has said herself, before speaking carefully and deliberately. "It would be an argument that I would suspect futile with him, that there are those among even mortals that feel grief that does not fade. And while there might be an end in death, for some, that will be the only end to it. Nor would I think that all who do not die of age - eldar, avari - feel grief forever, no matter that they may feel grief for longer than any mortal might live. Otherwise, what use is such a long life, if griefs never fades, and each builds upon the last?"

"No-one can live with grief always sharp in mind, any more than one can live with the past more real to one than the present. Dying or undying. That very thing is a straight path to fading, the reason so may Eldar go over the sea. One puts it out of mind, each grief separate, alone; thinks of other matters, finds things of beauty and joy to balance the unhappy."

Síndri is certain she's missed something in what Tílithluin is trying to tell her, but she isn't sure what it is, save that she'd almost swear she was suspended above the abyss of a shaft from the heights to the deeps of a hall. She reaches out again, curling her fingers around Tílithluin's wrist lightly, as if she's reaching out to keep a friend from falling. It doesn't matter what she might be missing, she's not going to let Tílithluin forget she is as close as kin, and Síndri won't let her fall.

"For some of us the joy, the now, the doing is worth it. For the joy does not fade either. But I am not even a thousand. What do I know." The last is almost a whisper, as if meant for Tílithluin alone, and Síndri tightens her grip, judging pressure with care so she does not cause harm to her friend.

"Some older than you would do well to heed your words, I'm sure." Síndri's voice is low and harsh. "And they'd all do well to think a little more on the joys of life than the mess they're making of diplomacy and politics."

She wishes she could avoid the politics that she's getting into, and return to her favorite joys - exploring and renewing the Mountain, spending time with the friends she's made, and bossing around her little work-crew.

Tílithluin turns her arm to grip Síndri's wrist in turn, firm and strong as Síndri's own, making a bridge between them that would be hard to break. Refusing to let each other fall.

"Some elder do heed them, for I learned them from them." Tílithluin's voice is lighter, sounding as if she's almost smiling, though it's hard to see such in her expression. "But they are not the problem, indeed. Nor are they here, and thus we younglings must do as we can."

There's silence for a long moment, as Tílithluin studies their clasped hands. Cool, long fingers circling Síndri's wrist, pale against the tan of Síndri's long hours spent under the sun. Muscles that are less prominent, but no less strong for it, are firm beneath the sword- and wire-calluses of Síndri's fingertips. Their pulses beat against each other in a familiar cadence where their wrists touch.

"I thank thee," Tílithluin says quietly, "for your care. You will not hurt me do you hold hard. We will neither let the other fall."

It is echo and affirmation of what Síndri had conveyed without words, in the simple grip. A reminder, without any rancor voiced or caused, that not all will understand the unspoken signals that most dwarrows read without needing to think on it.

"Indeed, we shall not." Síndri tightens her grip some, a smile ghosting across her face. "And we shall figure out this muddle, and let those who play at the height of politics congratulate themselves on a problem solved." As Síndri has become certain everything practical in the way of running the Mountain and fixing it up will be done.


	4. Feathers With Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Síndri and Sûlclaur spar verbally, and neither is quite sure who wins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the previous scene, this goes with [Flame and Stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957465/chapters/2370092), and is Síndri's POV of the conversation between her and Sûlclaur that Ráva arranged and is eavesdropping on.

"Mistress Síndri, Third Family of Steelwind Height, first Hall of the Great Southern Mountains." Síndri watches the elf with a deliberately imperious expression on her face she's copying from her memory of her mother's when she said she wouldn't wed to please her parents. "I believe you are the one who speaks with the voice and mind of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, are you not?"

"It is Prince Legolas who speaks with King Thranduil's Voice," Sûlclaur says, his voice holding a slight edge. "I advise, knowing my King's mind."

There's a sense of something behind his words that makes Síndri want to bristle - she hasn't liked anyone treating her like a child since she was a child. She doesn't, though, and continues to watch him with an unchanging expression as he studies her. She well knows what he would see, but how he might think of it, she's uncertain. A dwarrow, dressed in highly polished armor, with braids full of chains and tiny steel feathers - if he can even tell they're polished steel, and not silver or some other metal - with an expression that means to make him feel shorter than her, and Síndri is short for a dwarf in the first place.

"Sûlclaur Orothaurion, advisor and officer of the Court of Thranduil Oropherion," he says after a moment, at least deigning to match her formality with his own. Even with the denial of his role - though she doesn't know if he did so to prevent himself from greater danger, or because he thinks she wouldn't know the difference.

"Hmph." She narrows her eyes, studying him for a long moment. "Explain yourself, then. How is it you're still here?" She crosses her arms over her chest, widening her stance a little as if waiting for him to answer a question which has been more than clear, though she expects it's not nearly so clear for him as it would be for dwarrows. Of course, she hasn't seen many dwarrows spend as long to come to contract on anything as the negotiations are taking between Mirkwood and Erebor.

Síndri could almost grin when Sûlclaur draws himself up, and raises his eyebrows at her question. She could have asked the question more elaborately, and have laid it out more completely, but she prefers the fencing that should come without having done so - it will give her a better chance to draw him out. Although it's almost a disappointment that he doesn't answer her literally, as she knows some dwarrows would have, just for the sake of amusement. Of course she likely wouldn't have to be playing this game if the problem were a dwarrow.

His expression remains otherwise bland, and his voice is entirely too even for her tastes as he answers her. "The treaty is not yet finalized, with several important points still to be negotiated."

Likely he includes sending Tílithluin home to Mirkwood among those important points, which Síndri wonders at. Tílithluin might be young, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have knowledge and talent to be put to work - and she cannot gain further knowledge and skill without being allowed to _do_. She wonders what else he thinks they have yet to do, and if it's not him that's causing such trouble in working them through.

"And who are you, 'Mistress Síndri of Steelwind Height' to inquire so of me? Why are _you_ here?" He has a faint smile on his face as he asks the question in return, and Síndri snorts.

"I am the eldest daughter of the Third Family, and I am the only one from my halls in Erebor. How am I to achieve their best interests if I do not know the players of the game here? And I would expect, as you are still here, that you shall be one of those I should know." Síndri raises an eyebrow, letting a faint smile curl up one side of her mouth. "Or should I have gone to one of the others as a stronger choice of ally in this game?"

Sûlclaur is silent for a long time, and Síndri hopes that he is not puzzling out the true motives that underlie her manuvering, particularly since he is staring at her so intently. Though at least he does not call her on the bluff of the last bit, though she thinks she could still guide the conversation from that to what she needs - it might, though, lead him to knowledge she does not want to reveal yet.

When finally he speaks, his voice is light, but curious, and she supresses the urge to grin at his sniffing about the bait. Not yet closed himself in the trap, but it's a start.

"And what would you do with such an ally?" A question of what she might gain in an alliance with an elf, too, but like anyone at home, he can't ask that particular question aloud; it's too blunt an instrument for this conversation.

"Only those goals that my Prince hopes to achieve." She has no idea if Prince Einarr will even send a delegation in the long run, but she knows what he would want if he did. Not that she intends to be the pawn in _that_ political game - it would be too much like marrying a brother for her to play along, and Prince Einarr has relatives closer that would make better pawns.

Studying Sûlclaur with a deliberately amused smile for a long moment, Síndri adds, "After all, it would be poorly done to be on bad footing with Erebor's neighbors, and you will be here to help guide the association between Mirkwood and Erebor, will you not? A prince cannot remain away from home too long, I would imagine, even among those who live so long as the elves."

His glance at the feathers in her hair makes Síndri want to roll her eyes, but she merely waits for his response, which is not long in coming. He has no doubt seen something in her choice of adornments - and she's well aware of the implications of them, including some of them that the elf might not be as aware of, particularly if he hasn't much knowledge of the southern halls.

"Neighbors are important in considerations of an alliance," he says, his voice pitched to suggest agreement, "indeed, why else would Laketown and the Iron Hills have place at the treaty-table?"

Widening the field, and giving more room to play, then - both for himself and for her, as if this were the real game. Síndri can use that even in her own game, but she can only hope this doesn't take too long, or she risks giving it all away.

"Will you sit?" he asks, gesturing to one of the chairs at the table as he takes the one in the corner of the alcove. Watching her with an invitation in his expression, to see what she will do - and no matter what she does, it will give him something. Not that he gives much indication that he cares, continuing, "As you say, the time of Princes is seldom their own, their duties... many. But not all unpleasant."

Síndri tilts her head, letting her gaze stray from his to look over the chairs before she choses one that isn't the one he'd initially indicated. She nearly wants to scream when he voices his next thought, but keeps that from her expression with the ease of practice.

"Young Fíli and Kíli have recovered well from the battle, have they not? It is good to see them mindful of responsibility and attentive to their duty."

"They are healing well enough, and it is good to know they are much in the company of their uncle," Síndri allows, though she doesn't give it nearly the sort of emotion she might have if discussing it with her friends. "It is a hopeful thing to see." She pauses, tilting her head slightly and allowing her lips to curve upward into a small smile. "They are, after all, still young enough to learn who are their best choices of friend and ally."

And so far as she can tell, there they have generally good taste, if sometimes indiscriminate - certainly have good enough judgement to avoid those like Sûlclaur, who would tear them apart in the political arena, even without malicious intent.

"Indeed, indeed." Sûlclaur is watching her closely enough that Síndri can only hope he doesn't manage to force even the smallest true reaction from her - there will be no way to hide it. And she can't help the tightening of her jaw, the faintest narrowing of her eyes when he says, "It would behoove us then, to give them good examples."

And even though she's certain he's picked up it, and likely realized she's not looking truly for an ally, he doesn't show that. A good opponent for a game she hates to play, even when she finds the challenge interesting, as she is now. It feels almost a betrayal to take this much enjoyment out of the encounter, though she knows it is not, nor will anyone think less of her for it.

"What sort of example would your Prince have you set?"

Sûlclaur's question is one that will be tricky to answer, with her own standing at home. Certainly she isn't the sort of example Prince Einarr would think to see set for Fíli and Kíli - but she suspects she's far more the sort that King Thorin would want. Or at least, she has that hope, because if he thought along the lines of Prince Einarr, she'd have expected both the princes to have been better educated, or left at home when Thorin planned to retake the Mountain.

She doesn't answer immediately, watching Sûlclaur instead. "I do as I might to set the example my Prince would expect of me." Certainly Prince Einarr wouldn't be at all surprised she's consorting with those of lower birth or not dwarrows, nor would he be surprised she is choosing to work with her hands, or that she has shown no interest in the princes as more than friends. She doesn't know that he would approve - and knows her mother wouldn't - but that isn't something Sûlclaur needs to know. "Though I would prefer to also set the example my Prince would not wish greatly, to achieve some true peace between those who are dwarrows and those who are not. Even if it is something that King Thorin might not entirely embrace."

Pausing, she lets a small smile cross her face again. "Unless it is another who is delaying bringing the treaty to signing? Some concession that is desired by Erebor that will not be met?"

There's quiet after her question, Sûlclaur watching her with an expression that's something between appreciation and weighing - of what, she's not sure, nor is she certain she likes it. Certainly she wishes she could know what's going through his mind, though if that were possible, this whole conversation might not be needed, because Prince Legolas would have that ability long before she might, and he'd not need to be hearing this to know what needs to be known.

"You would defy your Prince for this 'peace'? Thorin?" Sûlclaur's voice is soft, like the crumbling soil near the edge of an unstable cliff, and Síndri has to keep herself from reaching for the hammer that hangs at her belt.

She watches Sûlclaur for a long moment, narrowing her eyes slightly. He's neatly avoided her own questions in order to ask one of his own, but she can't force the issue without showing her hand. Especially not with a question like that, which has all the makings of a trap.

"As I have said, I am here to seek the best interests of my people." She manages to keep her own voice level and as gentle as she can. "Peace would be of a benefit to them, and should my Prince's whims stand in the way of that peace, I would gladly defy him. Too, I would defy King Thorin for such a thing, if it is needful, but perhaps not as greatly as I might defy my own Prince, for he is here, and my Prince is not."

Sûlclaur studies her for a moment, before he stands swiftly, and tilts his head ever so slightly. "Mistress Síndri, Daughter of Steelwind Height, you have given me much to think upon. I thank you for your time."

There's respect in his voice, which Síndri isn't certain she wants, though she'll accept it as earned in his estimation. That he doesn't wait for her to stand before he leaves makes her wonder if she's even managed to achieve her objective, or if he's removing himself after having spotted the trap she'd meant to set. Scowling with frustration, she turns and stands, heading for the door herself. Even if she doesn't have what she needs, she's done her best, and she's earned the bath she intends to get.

Outside, though, is not quite the scene she expects, and Síndri pauses in the arch. "Prince Legolas. My Lord Ráva. Mister Baggins." Her voice holds just a hint of amusement, carefully judged so she doesn't give herself away entirely.

Ráva is looking far too smug for his own good in the long run - he'll give away his part in the charade and that may well make some of the rest of it fall apart. At the very least, he'll find himself paying consequences the rest of them will not, being better able to play the game. Síndri almost feels sorry for him, but not enough to get herself in more trouble than she might already be in.


End file.
